


The Gift

by BabalooBlue



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2018-01-19 15:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1475026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabalooBlue/pseuds/BabalooBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-finale.<br/>A friend is a gift you give yourself. (Robert Louis Stevenson)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Over The Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on fanfiction.net in August, 2013. I am reposting my existing work here now. If you are also a fanfiction.net user, you may have read this before.

_When the cancer starts getting really bad…_

House could have finished Wilson's sentence for him. He knew what he was going to say but he didn't want to hear it. Not then, not there. Not yet.

But it was going to come up again eventually.

House had worked hard to deflect this particular topic nearly every day since Wilson's first attempt to bring it up, that day on the bridge. Then, he had simply used one of his old jokes, the ones Wilson knew were weak and feeble and so ancient that neither of them could even remember them ever being funny. But Wilson had latched onto it gratefully because he had seen the intent behind the flippancy - let's not spoil our first few days of freedom, there'll be plenty of time for this later on. Considering what both knew awaited them down the road, it wasn't surprising that the idea of a few carefree days was appealing, even to Wilson.

Surprisingly, this fake levity, the fake jokes had been good for more than just a few days. They even stopped being fake for a while. For a while that lightness had carried them. It carried them across three state borders, through sunny days and rainy days. And whenever Wilson looked like he was about to fall back into that black pit and ask the question, House had dug up one of those jokes, shaken the crud off and slapped it right in his best friend's face.

"House, we have to…"

"We really don't  _have to_  do anything, Wilson. We're footloose and fancy-free. That's the whole point of this, isn't it? We're free as the breeze and can do as we please." And he started whistling. That last bit was borrowed from Dean Martin but the end justified the means.

The trick had worked for longer than House expected it to. Or they pretended that it worked. Agreeing to pretend was the same as really working, so they were good.

Until day 35.

He was running out of jokes, and he was also running out of energy to divert Wilson's attention. They weren't running out of time, not quite yet. But they would, eventually. And since they both knew that, the inevitable happened. The unspoken agreement collapsed.

"We need to talk, House."

Actually, they needed to do more than talk. They needed to make plans, start preparing. They couldn't run forever, not from Wilson's cancer. It would catch up with them and when it did they had better have a game plan or they'd be screwed. They'd probably be screwed either way but he knew Wilson wouldn't want to go into this blind. Wilson needed a strategy to feel in control. Even if he wasn't.

But yeah, we'll start with talking. "What do you want to talk about?"

"What we have avoided every single day since we left Princeton." Wilson was staring into his coffee and kept stirring it, as if it hadn't gone cold half an hour ago. "We need to talk about what we're going to do when the cancer gets bad."

There it was, right on the table, slap bang between them, surrounded by half empty cups, uneaten toast and congealed egg from their breakfast.

"So talk," said House and leaned back against the sticky fake leather of their diner booth, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Hell, he wasn't going to make it easy for Wilson.

Instead of a reply, his attitude earned him a Wilsonian look of disapproval, complete with raised eyebrows. Time to go on the offensive.

"Well, what do you expect me to say, Wilson? You're the one with cancer. This is your trip. You pick the destination, you decide how far we go and when. And I mean that in every possible way. So you talk."

He hadn't actually intended to sounds so hostile. Because he wasn't. He was anything but.

"Damn it, House, do you think this is just going to go away on its own? Stop avoiding the big issue for once!" Wilson banging his fist on the table and sending plates and saucers rattling earned them a wary look from the waitress behind the counter. She had been less than sympathetic from the minute they had both limped into the diner – Wilson from being saddle-sore and he, well, he always limped. A long day on the bike, a three-block walk to the restaurant last night, followed by a night in a motel bed that had seen better days definitely hadn't helped in matters leg.

Shocked by his own outburst, Wilson dialed it down a notch and continued in a slightly hushed tone. "I need to know what we're going to do before I get too sick to make any decisions. House, you promised, no hospitals. That still stands. I'm holding you to that!"

Wilson knew this but House had to point it out: "That's gonna make pain management a bit of a problem."

Wilson didn't say anything to this; he just nodded and kept prodding at the sad-looking pieces of toast left on his plate.

"You're already on the wrong side of the law …" Wilson's voice was so low it would have been easy for House to pretend he hadn't heard him. He knew exactly what Wilson was asking. They both did. They also both knew House wouldn't be able to say no to what Wilson was asking. He never could say no to Wilson's requests. Been there, done that, got the deep brain stimulation. Then as now Wilson knew what he was asking of House. He had risked his life for Wilson that time, in the full knowledge of what was at stake, and he would do it again, no hesitation. He would go and get the drugs for Wilson. They had already covered his own Vicodin needs by less than legal means before they left Princeton.

"Yeah, can't let Mr. Perfect go out on the streets scoring drugs. They'd spot you a mile off. And then where would you be? Boy Wonder Oncologist locked up for possession of narcotics – imagine the headlines. You'd die a slow death in prison. Can't have that, Wilson."

Uh oh. Wrong thing to say; levity was not what was called for right now judging by the look on Wilson's face. House wasn't quite sure what was scarier for Wilson, a slow death or prison. Or maybe it was the combination of both. Whichever it was that had him looking so terrified, Wilson seemed disinclined to pick up where he had left off and that was just fine with House.

He kind of hoped this was the end of it.

But he should have known better.

Their next clash came on day 46.

"House, where are you going at this hour? It's nearly midnight."

He stopped at the door but didn't turn around. "I know what time it is. I'm a big boy now, Mommy said I could stay out after dark."

He could hear Wilson moving about on his bed behind him. They had started taking one room with two beds instead of splurging out on two individual rooms. They always ended up watching TV in the same room together anyway. Plus, this way House could keep an eye on Wilson overnight, just in case. Of course that was not one of the reasons either of them mentioned when they made the decision to share a room.

"House, it's dark and the forecast is for rain. And  _The Return of the Swamp Thing_  is coming on in ten minutes. Where are you going?"

House could actually hear Wilson struggling to keep a whiny edge out of his voice. He was starting to get clingy. It was time to get going, there were things he needed to get done.

"Trust me, Wilson, it's better if you don't know." And with that he opened the door and left.

To his credit, Wilson didn't ask any further questions afterwards. Maybe he was in denial. He should have moved past stage one a long time ago. They had definitely passed anger a good while back. Bargaining hadn't worked and it seemed like they had dealt with depression during those two days when they were cooped up due to bad weather. Trust Wilson to shy away from acceptance and jump right back to denial.

Getting his hands on enough morphine and Pentobarbital hadn't been as difficult as he had thought. This was a sizeable town, not far from a medical school. Where there were wannabe doctors, there were broke wannabe doctors. Everyone had a price. The stash went into his backpack, as far away from Wilson's prying eyes as possible. Not that he wouldn't find out sooner or later anyway. But House had rather it was later. Much later. Or never. But that ship had sailed when Wilson refused further treatment.

House was relieved to find Wilson asleep already when he returned and went straight to bed. Running around on the streets trying to score was a young man's game, which was why he had made sure to score big. No way was he going to do this again.

Wilson had turned the light in the bathroom on and had even been kind enough to leave some of the good Scotch for House. It actually looked like he hadn't touched the bottle at all. No skin off his nose, that meant more left for himself. Two fingers would do tonight, though, just to take the edge off the pain in his leg. He was tired and needed sleep.

But that wasn't to be, not for long anyway. It felt like he had just nodded off when thrashing and moaning from the next bed woke him. One glance told him, though, that this wasn't the emergency he had been dreading. No, Wilson was just having a nightmare. A very vocal one by the sounds of it.

"No, no, no, no, you're not getting that …"

House watched Wilson struggle with the covers while arguing with someone. The fight got more and more heated, and Wilson sounded more and more desperate.

"No, not him. You can't have him. Leave him alone!"

Now he was getting really worked up. When House saw tears running down his friend's face in the low light from the bathroom, he decided it was time to intervene. He carefully sat down on Wilson's bed.

"Hey." He shook his friend's shoulder. "Hey, Wilson, time to let go, wake up."

Wilson kept thrashing around and House was too sleepy to duck fast enough, so Wilson's right caught him bang on his ear. Thankfully the guy was a leftie, so there wasn't much power behind that hit.

House ended up pinning Wilson's hands to the mattress to stop him from hurting him any further.

"Wilson, damn it, wake up! Are you trying to kill me?"

Somehow, that did it.

Still slightly disoriented, Wilson mumbled, "What're you doing here, House? Go back to your own bed."

Sniveling, he rolled over and turned his back to House. His shoulders were shaking, though, so it was easy to see through the cool guy attitude. Wilson's shtick never really worked on House anyway.

That's how he ended up rubbing Wilson's back until his breath didn't hitch anymore and the sniveling had stopped. Only then did he make his way back to his own bed.

Twenty minutes, or 142 breaths later, when he thought Wilson had long gone back to sleep, he heard him whispering from his side of the room.

"House? I know I have no right to ask this of you…"

It was so quiet that he almost missed it. And, had he been asleep, he would have. As it was, he wasn't and he didn't. He tried to figure out how to respond. Knowing exactly how Wilson was going to finish that sentence made him wish he'd had more than that one glass of scotch. A lot more.

The answer shouldn't be so difficult. After all, he had offered to help Thirteen. And she hadn't even asked. It had been a relatively easy decision at the time. But then, it had been a long way off and didn't concern his best friend. He liked Thirteen, appreciated her smarts and quick wit. But she wasn't even close to being a meaningful fixture in his life. Wilson on the other hand… Wilson was Wilson.

"Damn right you've got no right," he grumbled finally, after deciding he couldn't leave Wilson hanging like that forever. "Do you know what it's going to be like? You'll have trouble breathing; with the thymoma pressing on your lungs, your O2 sats will be in the tank and …"

Wilson interrupted him quietly, but determined. "House, I know what it's going to be like. And I also know you've probably got a shitload of drugs in that backpack right now. We both know how it works. If it were up to me, I'd go for morphine for the pain plus Pentobarbital. I'm guessing you got enough of both in there. But I still have to ask because I'm not taking this for granted. I know you've done so much already and this could really be the end of anything resembling a normal life for you if anyone ever figures this out. So I  _know_  I have no right to ask. But I'm asking anyway."

As if he had ever had any hope for a normal life. All he wanted was to not go back to prison. And he would make damn sure he wouldn't. But he couldn't take that illusion from Wilson as well. Wilson was struggling with reality as it was – he probably still thought House could come back from this. No need to complicate things even further for him.

He had gone this far for Wilson already, there was no good reason to stop now. No good reason except his own fear. And after all, that had never been a good enough reason for anything.

And that was the second time in his life he promised to kill someone. This promise he would be able to keep, though. Or he'd die trying.

"House…?"

"Yes."

"Yes, as in…?"

"As in  _Yes, I knew you'd ask me that._ As in  _Yes,_   _I knew you'd go for Pentobarbital because I've been friends with an oncologist most of my professional life._ As in  _Yes, I'll do it if and when you want me to_. Happy now?"

That was it. There was no way back now. He would never go back on his word and Wilson knew this. All of a sudden House felt queasy and couldn't get out of bed and into the bathroom fast enough.

House was sure Wilson could hear him retching through the thin plywood door. But he couldn't bring himself to reply to Wilson's insistent knocking on the door when it came. He was too shaky, sitting there on the tiled floor. This squeamishness was so not like him. He had never shied away from the truth.

"House… are you okay in there? Shit… alright, alright, I know you're not okay. Obviously not. House… open the door!"

For a while he just sat there listening to Wilson's pleas.

He had just committed himself to killing his best friend. That he had known this was coming, ever since making the decision to leave Princeton with Wilson, made no difference whatsoever. He was going to end Wilson's life. And then – then what? Burning all bridges in Princeton made it impossible for him to go back. It was impossible to go back to anything even remotely resembling his former life, no matter the location. Really, his only choice was prison. Or…

"House, please – open the door!"

"Go away, Wilson. I meant what I said - I'll do it. What more do you want?"

"Nothing, House. I just want you to open the door and let me in, so we can talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about. I've said all I'm going to say."

He heard Wilson walk away after that.

House fingered the bracelet on his wrist. And knew he had done the right thing.


	2. Memento

**Memento**

me·men·to

**_noun_**  \mə-ˈmen-(ˌ)tō, ÷mō-\

**Definition:**  something that serves to warn or remind

* * *

Nobody had bothered to ask. Nobody had even noticed. Or, if they had noticed, they had just written it up to another Houseian quirk. And then gone back to ignoring it. That's how these things usually worked – people didn't spend too much time trying to figure out why he did what he did, they just assumed that his reasons were so eccentric that they didn't even bother trying to understand. In fact, this was not very mysterious or even weird. People would have laughed at his sentimentality if they had known.

Not that he had actually wanted anyone to comment, far from it. He didn't wear it for anyone but himself. If he'd been able to, he would have put it somewhere else, out of everybody else's view – somewhere only he would be able to see. To see and remember. As it was, no other place made sense. Or, if it did, he couldn't reach it. And if he couldn't reach it, then he couldn't see it, simple as that. Seeing it was the whole point. So there.

The lack of comments was strange nonetheless. But it showed that people saw what they wanted to see. And nobody expected to see him wearing any kind of jewelry, however crude.

House stopped staring at his own wrist in the dim light and looked up towards his couch where Wilson had spent the last two days sweating and suffering and hallucinating. His best friend, his only friend. The reason for wearing it, the reason for creating it.

He was keeping watch over his friend, the one person in his life he couldn't afford to lose. Just an hour ago he had given Wilson the last Vicodin from his own stash. As strategically as they had planned all this – the chemo, the equipment, heck, even the adult diapers – House had actually forgotten to make sure he himself was fully stocked to withstand a grueling weekend of getting Wilson through kick-ass chemo. And he had run out. He had run out because they hadn't been able to anticipate the extent of Wilson's need for morphine. Wilson was a sissy. But instead of telling him to suck it up, House had just given him his own pills after the morphine was gone, thereby cutting himself off from pain relief. Just to take the edge off, he had helped himself to some bourbon earlier. But he knew he needed to stay alert, in case Wilson woke. So he left it at two decent shots. And now here he was, unable to sleep, sitting watch in the middle of the night, while trying to ignore the beast that was raging through his thigh.

Right now, Wilson was asleep. His heart rate was within acceptable range and he hadn't vomited in over two hours. Maybe this was going to work after all.

House took a few deep breaths through the pain and settled back into the easy chair.

Not even Wilson had noticed the thin braid on House's wrist. House was certain he hadn't or he would never have heard the end of it. Wilson wouldn't have been able to resist cracking a joke at House's expense.

Had Wilson ever brought it up, and let's face it, it could still happen, House would have had to come up with a good cover story, something that would make sense for Wilson. Because he sure as hell would not tell him the truth.

House looked at his wrist again. The bracelet was still intact. He tugged at it slightly and was satisfied when the knot held. It would be there until it fell off – a lasting reminder why he was sitting right here, now.

Six months into his original sentence he had finally given in to the pressure of having to join a class or a course of some sort. It was either that or more work. Being on a lower Vicodin dosage and having no other relief for his pain, he couldn't afford to be sent to work in the prison laundry or kitchen. His reduced janitor duties were already more than he could manage. Inside he couldn't just take a hot bath to relieve the tension in his muscles when he needed it. Showers at set times were the most you could expect. He was an easy target, so he got those over with as fast as he was able to.

The selection in further education wasn't exactly enticing – unlike most of the other inmates, he was already literate, he spoke both Spanish and French, and he wasn't interested in car mechanics or gardening. Nor was he particularly keen to write his memoirs. That was about all that was on offer. So he finally ended up in a macramé and needlework class. It wasn't very popular with the tough guys, so it was safe, but he wouldn't be adding it to his CV in a hurry, that was for sure.

The class was full of guys who had families, grown men making gifts for their wives, fiancées and children. House still shuddered just thinking of it. The only time in his life he had ever felt as much out of place was on his first day at school in Japan. Then, as much as in prison, he was trying to keep his head down. So he just sat with all the other guys and tried to blend in.

He had planned to muddle his way through this class without actually doing anything. The goal was to have some downtime without supervision and without getting annoyed by the tough guys who were all either in the mechanics course or the gardening class, just so they could get some fresh air. So he spent his first day watching a beefy guy trying to knit a scarf for his baby son. Should he ever be forced to write his memoirs, this would fall into the 'Funniest Two Hours in Prison' category. The guy kept dropping the needles.

Afterwards he was quite pleased with his own cleverness. Choosing that class was the best thing that had happened to him in the last six months. Well, except finding out that Frankie played chess, that had been a real stroke of luck. This class gave him a reprieve from Mendelson and his cohorts and was at least slightly entertaining.

The second time he attended, the instructor cornered him, though. She was a nice elderly lady who was probably bragging to her nice elderly lady friends over tea how she spent her time helping those 'poor wretched souls behind bars'. She dropped her nice elderly lady demeanor just long enough to tell him in no uncertain terms that he would have to choose a project or leave the class. As unfortunate as it was, rules were rules and there was no free ride to be had here.

So he sat down with a stack of needlework books and pretended to read through them, all the while watching his neighbor, a middle-aged guy fiddling around with some yarn. House just couldn't figure out what he was trying to do. In the end he asked him point blank.

"I'm making a friendship bracelet for my daughter. They're all the hype, she says. Apparently she and her friends keep making them for each other, so they'll never forget each other or some stupid shit like that. She's not in any danger of forgetting them, of course, they're in the same class in school every damn day. It's her fourteenth birthday next week and I thought if I make her one, she won't forget her own dad. She'll see it on her wrist and that way she'll think of me every day. I hope."

Corny. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry with the sappiness of it all. Keep hoping, pal. If you stay in here much longer, your daughter will be pregnant before you know it and then she'll have even more things on her mind. You'll be last on the list, my friend.

The class was over soon enough and he had again avoided doing any work. Score.

Back in his cell, the man's words kept echoing in his head, though.  _She'll see it on her wrist and that way she'll think of me every day._  It was sad that the daughter actually needed a reminder to not forget her father. Some things were indelibly etched into your memory, though, and you couldn't get them out – even if you wanted to. No matter how hard you tried.

Like the look on Wilson's face, when he jumped out of the way of the car, just before House drove it into Cuddy's front room.

House had been trying to avoid that image ever since that day. And, since he'd been trying so hard, it was constantly at the forefront of his mind, any quiet moment he got. And there were lots of those where he was right now.

Once he had returned to Princeton and surrendered himself to the police, he had stopped worrying about Cuddy and Rachel. He was going to pay his dues in prison. He had not hurt Cuddy or her daughter and he hadn't intended to either.

"House?" He was shaken out of his reverie. Wilson was waking up. And by the sounds of it he was going to puke his insides out in a minute. Again.

Half an hour and a lot of mostly silent cursing later, House sank back into his chair, grateful to be able to take the weight off his leg. Cleaning up Wilson's puke, washing out stinking towels and helping him rinse his mouth was a job for young nurses and not for aging, crippled jailbirds. But then, how many times had Wilson done more or less the same thing for him? House well remembered dark times when Wilson was the only one he would let near him, when Wilson was the only one allowed to see and help him heave his bony ass into the bathroom. Wilson had done it and he hadn't hesitated. He hadn't minded that House smelled, the pain and anger and fear creating its own unique scent. He hadn't cared that House cursed him to kingdom come when he jarred his leg helping him in and out of the tub. He didn't complain because he knew the curses weren't actually directed at him. He knew House was really cursing himself, his own weakness. This was his chance to pay Wilson back a little for some of the crap he had put him through back then. He was only running about 15 years late.

He didn't feel the need to repay Cuddy for anything. She certainly hadn't done him any kindness that she hadn't profited from already. Giving him a job at PPTH in the first place had been repaid a hundred times over in all the publicity and the donations he had brought in, simply by doing his job and solving the unsolvable. And as for ruining her dining room, well he had paid for that with ten months in prison. She filed charges, she wanted to see him locked up, and she got her satisfaction. He had paid for that impulsive release of all the anger that had been boiling inside him for what had felt like forever. Chapter closed.

Wilson was a whole other story, though. Wilson was collateral damage of the worst kind. The last image he had of his friend as he hurried past him was of Wilson standing utterly lost and confused in front of Cuddy's house, cradling his right arm gingerly against his chest. He had clearly been hurt, probably broken his wrist. That had not been House's intention, that was the last thing he had wanted. The fact that it wasn't Wilson's dominant hand had been little consolation. Sleepless in his cell at night, thoughts of Wilson troubled him. He was the cause of that look. He was the cause of the physical pain. He had done that to his friend.

As much as the two of them had been bickering over the years, as often as they had pranked each other – House had never actually done anything to physically harm Wilson. Until that day.

It ate at him. But while he was still on the run, he couldn't just phone him. You never knew who might be listening in. Or whether Wilson would go tattle to the police. So he did nothing. Later, he went through the motions in court, didn't get a lawyer, didn't defend himself. Wilson didn't show up in court. He didn't need to since he hadn't pressed charges. That was the only thing keeping House upright. If Wilson hadn't filed assault charges against him, then there was still a chance they could patch things up eventually. And yet, he didn't phone him from prison. He easily could have, there were phone privileges and it wasn't like he couldn't recite Wilson's number in his sleep.

He hadn't lied when he told Porter that he was 'peepless'. Indeed, he was. He did not want any contact with anyone on the outside. He was inside for a reason. He had a debt to pay and a punishment to accept, and he certainly didn't want anyone seeing him in there.

However, on some level, he had wanted Wilson to at least try to visit. Oh, he would have rejected the request, no doubt. But a request was what he had been hoping for, deep down inside – one small indicator that Wilson was still interested in House's welfare, that, yes, eventually they would be okay again. He had been holding out for that little glimmer of hope. The request never came.

So that look on Wilson's face kept tormenting him. And, sitting there on his prison cot, he wasn't even sure whether he ever  _wanted_  to forget it. Maybe he shouldn't. Maybe he should always remember what he had been capable of that day. He had physically hurt his only friend. He could have killed him if Wilson hadn't jumped out of the way. It was his biggest regret about that whole sordid affair of the break up and his finally flying off the handle. He never wanted to forget Wilson's look because he never, ever wanted to see it again, never wanted to be the cause of that again. Maybe he was the one who needed one of those damn bracelets to remind himself never to mess up like that again.

And so he had sat down during the following class and learned how to braid one of those friendship bracelets. No girly pinks and purples for him, though, thank you very much. This was weird enough already, no need to make himself a laughing stock. He chose black and white; if he was going to wear a symbol, he might as well go all the way - black and white, good and evil. The funny thing was, he actually quite enjoyed making the stupid thing. It kept his brain busy for all of ten minutes, until he had figured out how to do this braiding business. It also kept his hands busy and the rhythm, once he had found it, was almost hypnotizing.

Keeping his hands busy had been a big plus in his book. Aside from being a dangerous environment for someone of his age and physical ability or lack thereof, prison was a very boring place. He was constantly on the lookout for something to keep himself interested, busy and alert. He also missed his piano something terrible. At night, with his leg keeping him awake, he whiled away the time by playing classical pieces on his blanket. He had always struggled with the classics, had been more attracted to jazzy and bluesy numbers. Now he had the time to practice. Late at night, when all the noise of prison life had finally died down, he could hear the music in his head. But it wasn't enough - he longed to feel the keys under his fingers.

A groan from the couch made him look up.

"Why aren't you asleep, House? You sitting shiva already?"

Sounded like Wilson hadn't quite lost his humor yet.

"No, you idiot. We're here so I  _don't_  have to sit shiva for you any time soon. There's no point going to bed because you'll just be due another diaper change in a short while anyway. Now, go back to sleep!"

A grunt was the only response from the couch and by the time he straightened up to check on him, Wilson seemed to have gone back to sleep again.

With a sigh he leaned back into his chair and rubbed his face. He barely felt the bracelet catch against his skin. The knotted texture had smoothed out quite a bit, you could hardly distinguish the individual strands anymore.

Of course the black and white on his wrist was no longer black and white either. The white had darkened into a muddy grey and the black had faded a bit, too – sweat and soap and sebum had seen to that. In this light it was hard to even see a difference anymore between the colors. He almost laughed out loud - talk about symbolism!

Dawn was creeping up on them slowly; his vigil was nearly over. Wilson seemed comfortable enough right now, so it looked like he could maybe get an hour's sleep before the sun woke them both. But he had accomplished what he had set out to do; against the odds, Wilson had survived the chemo. Another day was about to start – with probably more pain ahead for both of them. No matter what, there was always more pain around the corner. He knew that. But Wilson didn't. So he needed to make sure Wilson could handle it. And maybe he'd get to stick around for Wilson a while longer.


	3. Day And Night

And he did get to stick around a bit longer for Wilson. Not a whole lot longer, because one of these days Wilson would decide this was it.

* * *

"Are you sure this is what you want your last view to look like?" House couldn't help asking. The house was ugly as hell and the view wasn't much better. As far as he could see the only upside was that it was available for long-term rent for a relatively good price. And the landlady hadn't asked too many annoying questions. He turned around and looked at Wilson.

"Do you honestly think I'll spend my last days in a rocking chair on the porch, wrapped up in a blanket, staring out at the sunset, House?"

House swallowed hard. "I don't know, Wilson. How do you want your last days to go down?" And then, a touch more hesitant, "We haven't talked about any of that. Not really."

Wilson sat down on the steps and looked out across the street. "Do you  _want_  to talk about it? I didn't think you did."

Did he hell. But then, he didn't want to have this whole conversation in the first place. If it had been up to him, they wouldn't be here to begin with. They would be in whatever hospital Wilson deemed to be the pinnacle of oncology and Wilson would be undergoing more chemo or whatever other treatments they could come up with. They certainly wouldn't be standing here, trying to arrange Wilson's last days.

"I want to be able to open the window and have fresh air come in. I want a couch that's big enough for both of us to sit on. I want you there, and no other audience."

It was a short wish list, House was surprised. "That's it? No cable TV? No 24/7 access to Hot Babes? No hot tub?"

Wilson grinned. "Remind me whose last days we're talking about again?"

* * *

As much as their roles had slowly reversed over the last few months, with House taking over Wilson's role of mother hen, there were moments when everything just flipped back to how it had been all those years, in the blink of an eye, as if nothing had ever happened.

House had been running errands all day. He had dropped off their rent at the landlady's house, done their laundry at the local Laundromat and brought home two bags of groceries and the stationery Wilson had asked for.

Despite having paced himself, by the end of the day his leg hurt like hell and even two extra Vicodin barely touched it.

Wilson found him sitting on the edge of the tub where he had been for the last half hour, trying to figure out how the hell he was going to make it back out to the bedroom without alerting Wilson.

It was obvious, one look at House told Wilson all he needed to know. He just stood there, his hand stretched out towards House to help him get up, and he clearly had no idea. He just had no idea of the beast raging through House's thigh, clawing its way up his spine to the base of his neck and then back down until it reached his toes. Wilson's outstretched hand would be able to do precisely nothing when House didn't even have the energy left to pick up his cane off the floor.

"House?"

"Go to bed, Wilson."

"I'm not going to leave you stuck here."

Next thing he knew, Wilson was peeling House's hands off his thigh where they had ended up in a death grip. Wilson's eyes were so full of sympathy that he had to look away.

They somehow made it to the bedroom without killing themselves. Depositing House on his bed, Wilson turned and began digging in the closet.

"I'll leave you to change on your own or you'll just accuse me of trying to cop a feel." Wilson wore a tentative smirk – like he was sure he was doing the right thing but knew House would resist him every step of the way. God, how many times had they gone through this charade?

"Wilson, I'm tired of this."

"Huh?" Wilson interrupted his search of the closet to stash House's sneakers next to his own near the door. "Tired of what?"

House looked down at his feet while fumbling with his belt.

"This…", he waved his hand vaguely at his leg, then at Wilson and the bathroom. "This… everything. It's bullshit. I know you don't believe me when I say I can manage. Same as I don't believe you when you tell me every morning that cough in the night is the start of a summer cold."

Wilson stopped cold.

"House…" It sounded more like a plea than like his usual reprimand.

House knew there was no way back now that he had opened his mouth. He had no more energy left for playing pretend. He had just broken an age-old unspoken agreement about which things were okay to talk about and which weren't.

Wilson took a long time to rummage through the closet and when he came back to the bed, House's backpack in hand, House was dressed in his sleep pants and had managed to struggle halfway under the covers. He was panting from the exertion and bathed in cold sweat. His hands had gone back to this leg, trying to soothe the beast.

House's eyes went to the backpack. "Oh no no no no, Wilson. No. Put that right back where you found it."

"I thought we had agreed to stop the pretense."

House pulled himself up against the headboard, to better glare at Wilson. "We have agreed no such thing. I said I was tired of it, that's all. You are the one who wants to get all serious all of a sudden. You want to stop pretending? So go ahead, start explaining to me how bad the pressure is at night, when you're flat on your back. Start telling me how it feels when your breath catches and you start imagining what it will be like to suffocate. Tell me how happy you are with what you see in the mirror every morning!"

The pain was spiking, and he compensated by yelling at Wilson. Way to go, House.

It was obvious that Wilson swallowed hard on a nasty reply to House's outburst. "Great, start telling the cancer patient how bad he looks. Ever considered a career as a motivational speaker?"

Before Wilson could turn around and leave, House grabbed his wrist and yanked him back.

"You're not, though, are you?" he hissed. "You're not a cancer  _patient_. You're just a scared, dying man. And you think, focusing on me and my misery for one night is going to distract you from yours? Good luck with that."

Wilson freed his hand from House's grasp and shook his head. "No, House, the one looking for a distraction is you. I can see it in your eyes – the pain is worse than it was before. You've taken way over the maximum dosage today already. And yes, I've been counting, so sue me! This has gone far enough, House."

His eyes never left House's face while his hands unzipped the backpack and began pulling out the morphine vials.

House was breathing too hard to respond, it was all he could do to not start crying like a baby. When Wilson's hands found the syringes House had stashed in a side pocket, he stopped him, though.

"No. Wilson, no!"

_Yes, yes, hurry up, please…_

Wilson stopped to check that he had found all of the stash and then looked at the sizeable pile of morphine vials on the bed next to House's hip.

"Why not? Tell me. There's enough here for a family of four. Why so much, House? Even just half of that would be overkill for me. Ha, get it? Overkill."

He then looked straight into House's face. And House knew that Wilson knew. His hands went to his thigh, autopilot, something to do. He needed to stop the pain.

"House, answer me."

Wilson was now leaning way too far into House's face. House closed his eyes.

"It's mine", he whispered finally.

There was a long silence. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, way too fast, and the screaming of the beast in his thigh. When he finally opened his eyes again, he saw Wilson calmly drawing up a small dose into one of the syringes he had unpacked. He reached for House's arm so he could find a vein.

House stopped him.

"Wilson, don't. I can't. I need to… not tonight. I'll be okay, I just need to sleep."

When Wilson looked up, it was clear that he knew what the morphine was for.

"If it's yours, House, then you're allowed to use it. You know you'll never be able to sleep without it. The pain will just get worse until you pass out. Your heart might not be able to take it. It's just a small dose, see?" And he held up the syringe, so House could check. He was not going to trick him. It should just be enough to stop the pain in its tracks and knock him out for a few hours.

"But… I can't, Wilson. I have… need to… argh, fuck!" He couldn't bring himself to say it, couldn't let Wilson know why he couldn't let himself get knocked out. He would take the pain, he would manage somehow.

Wilson put one calming hand on his shoulder. "Why not? Tell me why."

It was then that all the fight went out of him and he just looked helplessly at Wilson.

"Because … I need to be alert. In case something happens." There, it was out. In case something happens  _to you_.

Wilson just sat there for a while, looking at House, searching his face for another meaning underneath what he had just said. It was all there in big, fucking neon letters. So big, Wilson couldn't miss it.

And then Wilson just smiled that sad smile House had seen a few times lately. It pulled up just one side of his mouth and his eyes didn't smile along.

"House, it's okay. I'll be right here. Nothing is going to happen to me tonight. I promise, okay? I feel fine. You can take this, so you can sleep. And we'll both be okay in the morning. I promise."

House wasn't sure whether he could trust Wilson's promises. But he really had no choice. He could already feel himself losing against the pain and if he passed out from that, who knew what could happen.

Reluctantly he stretched out his arm. His eyes never left Wilson's hands; he had to make sure Wilson didn't secretly dose him more than necessary.

When the cold needle finally pierced his skin, he couldn't suppress a sigh of relief.

Wilson chuckled. "And you were denying yourself pain relief just so you could watch over me? I'm honored, House. Have you slept at all the last two months? Were you planning on never sleeping again?"

He could feel the morphine setting to work, sweet, warm relief, washing away the pain. But he was still conscious enough to contradict Wilson.

"No, idiot. I slept. Just… just not knocked out. Been… careful with the drink, too."

Wilson disposed of the empty syringe in the bathroom trashcan and came back to pull the covers over House. He tucked him in like a toddler, smiling all the while – but not that new, sad smile. No, a proper, happy Wilson smile. Why, what had he said?

Then he sat down next to House.

"How're you doing there, House? Not asleep yet? God, you're some pig-headed bastard. You can let go now. Just let the morphine do its job. I'm going to watch TV but I'll be right outside, I'll leave the door open."

House managed to grab Wilson's wrist just before he got up.

"Don't go yet. Stay… just sit."

Wilson looked surprised but he did as House asked and sat down on the bed, right next to him.

House felt relief wash through him. Wilson wasn't going anywhere, he would be right there, so House would know if something happened during the night. He smiled at him and let himself be pulled under that sweet, warm blanket of morphine. The last thing he felt was a hand covering his own hand and another gently smoothing his hair and then coming to rest on his cheek.

"'night, Wilson", he muttered and leaned just a little into that soothing touch.

"Good night, House."

* * *

He could hear Wilson breathing heavily at night. It was getting worse by the day. Since Wilson didn't say a word, House had to figure out for himself how things were going.

House had also seen him rub his chest several times; both in his sleep and awake. It took Wilson longer to get going in the mornings. At this point, House knew that every breath, every movement involving Wilson's upper body must hurt. How much, he had no idea, it was hard to tell.

Finding Wilson seated on the closed toilet lid one morning, hunched over and humming quietly to himself, made House stop in his tracks. He had been wondering why Wilson took so long in the bath.

"Just checking, are you okay?"

"Mmm… yeah, I'm good."

House sidled up to Wilson's hunched form and put a hand on a surprisingly bony shoulder. When had he lost all that weight?

"You do remember how you used to kick my ass when I told you I was okay when I was so clearly not, right?"

"Huh…" Wilson huffed, trying hard not to choke on a laugh. "Yeah, I remember. Sorry about that." It took him a couple of slow breaths to be able to continue. "I always thought it was very annoying. But I get it now. Better late than never, eh."

"Yeah, better late than never. Come on, let's get you to the couch."

* * *

Then came the morning Wilson didn't make it out to the couch. House found him leaning against the closed bathroom door.

"I'm going back to bed, House. Not in the mood for the couch today."

But then, he didn't go. He just stood there, staring at the floor.

"You want breakfast in bed? Heck, you could've just said so, Wilson."

The tired smile on Wilson's face nearly did him in. It didn't look like Wilson would get going any time soon. So House gently took his arm and pulled him away from the door, back towards the bedroom. It was slow going, House being less than steady on his feet and Wilson breathing hard.

* * *

At this point Wilson had piled up almost all the pillows in the house at the top of his bed. House had doggedly held on to his own two pillows, knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep a wink or move anywhere in the morning if he couldn't prop up his leg at night. But other than those two pillows, Wilson had commandeered every single one in the house. He now slept nearly sitting up.

If he slept at all. Some nights it didn't look like he would.

When all the pillows weren't enough anymore, they dragged the ratty old recliner from the living room into the bedroom, as close as possible to House's bed. That's where Wilson slept from then on. They had seen this set up hundreds of times in their professional lives and that's what made this look so many kinds of wrong, like their roles were reversed – Wilson minding House, the patient in the bed.

* * *

He was barely in the door, trying to balance two bags of groceries, the package and his cane, when he heard Wilson cough. Shit. He sounded worse than this morning.

"Hey, Wilson, I'm back."

He found him sitting on the couch, the quilt from the bed around his shoulders, watching a nature documentary on TV.

"House, did you know that it's the male sea horse, not the female, that carries the eggs around in a pouch until they hatch?"

"No, Wilson, I had no idea."  _But they do mate for life, I know that much_. He threw the package in Wilson's direction and almost missed him. He was beginning to lose his touch. It hit him on the upper arm, thankfully not in the chest. "There, found something for you."

And with that House turned and went back into the kitchen to unpack the groceries. When he was finally done and came back into the living room juggling two glasses of milk in one hand and a packet of Oreos between his teeth, Wilson was still sitting on the couch; the package untouched in his lap. The quilt had slipped from his shoulders.

"What's wrong?"

Wilson looked up slowly. "This," he pointed at the package. "This is wrong. What's this for, House? You never get me gifts."

"Sure I do."

"No, you don't. You steal from me; you con me into paying for you. You make me do things for you.  _You_  never give  _me_  gifts. Why now?"

"Oh, for crying out loud, just open the damn thing. It's not jewelry, it's not a new car, it's just something I saw and thought you'd like. If you don't want it I'll take it back tomorrow."

Wilson still looked suspicious and somehow upset at the same time. Who knew what he suspected it was. They locked eyes for a moment, Wilson trying to suss out what was going on in House's head. House held the look, then shrugged his shoulders and sat down opposite Wilson, setting the milk down carefully. He tried to look casual, as if he didn't give a damn either way.

Finally Wilson gave in and carefully peeled the paper away. It didn't take long to pull out the gray plaid robe that was inside. Holding it up in both hands he looked at House.

"Hey, they didn't exactly have a great selection here, this isn't New York, you know. You don't like the colors? Tough."

Wilson looked at the robe for a long while, his hands toying with the fabric.

"It's fleece, so cozy and warm. I've been cold for days – how did you figure that out?"

House huffed. "You think you schlepping around with the quilt all day could've been a hint maybe? Now, try it on, so I know if I have to return it or not."

It fit perfectly.

"Aw, the color looks so good on you, very fetching," House teased.

"You know I'm not gonna get much use out of it, House…"

House banged his glass on the table, nearly drenching a stack of newspapers in the process.

"For Pete's sake, Wilson, will you just take it?! Giving you a gift is like pulling teeth. And you wonder why I've avoided it all those years? You think only you can be thoughtful and caring? Well, you're probably right because I just bought it on the spur of a moment. No thought went into this at all, no planning. There. You happy now? Now sit down and eat your damn cookies."

* * *

There was the night they nearly collapsed on the way back from the bathroom. It wasn't that Wilson couldn't manage on his own in there, but House had taken it upon himself to stand guard outside the door, just in case. Especially at night, Wilson could be a bit wobbly on his feet.

When he came back out, he did steady himself against the doorframe and House knew he was dizzy. Without a word he grabbed Wilsons arm and supported him back to the recliner.

That stupid carpet almost became their downfall. Literally. House just managed to catch himself on the edge of the dresser when he tripped. Thankfully he had let go of Wilson's arm or they would have both gone down.

Finally they got Wilson tucked up in his recliner, and House settled back in bed next to him.

"You know there are better places for you to be than this dump…"

"House, shut up."

"No, let me finish. I nearly brought us both down just now and this is just the beginning. Wilson, I'm not cut out for this. This is not the right place for you."

There was a short silence during which House thought that maybe he had gotten through to Wilson.

"You're not getting out of this. There  _is_  no better place for me, House."

* * *

Then one day Wilson nearly choked while eating. House had taken over cooking duties a while ago and so far his offerings had mostly consisted of soups and sandwiches. Easy fare, quick to prepare – he didn't want to spend hours in the kitchen – and easy to eat on the couch, in bed and in the recliner. While everyone chokes on something every now and then, House was watching Wilson like a hawk for symptoms and dysphagia was one of them.

"House, stop staring at me while I'm eating."

"'m not staring."

"Not openly, no." Wilson leaned back on the couch. So he had pegged House casting sideways glances at him since they started on the pizza they had got delivered. "I know what you're looking for. Come on, we're both professionals and we both know what to expect. Stop the surveillance. I promise I'll tell you when any of my symptoms gets serious, okay?"

"Ha, so you do admit you've got symptoms that you deem 'not serious' enough to share!"

Wilson got up from the couch, casting his paper napkin into the empty pizza box. He had gotten a lot slower lately, House noticed with a now almost familiar twinge of regret.

"Yes, I do," Wilson said from the door. "And there's nothing you can do about either of them. So let it go, House. I'll tell you when there's something you need to know. It's not like you're sharing every twinge or cramp of yours."

Yeah, but I'm not the one who's dying, House thought when Wilson disappeared into the bathroom.

* * *

That night they got properly drunk for the last time. They hadn't planned it. House had got that really good Scotch a few weeks back and so far they hadn't touched it. He had stopped drinking because he wanted to make sure he was alert enough, just in case Wilson needed him. So the bottle was stashed at the back of the kitchen cupboard, out of sight, out of mind.

Wilson had gone into the kitchen to get another bag of chips, leaving House on the couch watching some awful action movie. When he came back he had the bottle of Scotch under his arm.

"When were you going to tell me about this beauty hidden at the back of the cupboard? Were you planning on keeping it for my wake?" Wilson looked like a man on a mission.

They started out having a shot each. It was good stuff. So good that they didn't stop at one glass. Soon it was two and then three.

When Wilson started giggling after number four, House knew they were in trouble.

"Hey… Wilson. Think we better stop now? I think if I have any more I won't make it to bed anymore."

"Nooo, spoilsport! This is the last time I'm getting properly drunk; so I'm not gonna stop halfway. I'll hurt in the morning anyway, so who… the fuck cares if I've got a hangover on pot of… top of everything else!"

Wilson had refilled his glass and was about to do the same with House's. His hands weren't all that steady anymore, though, so some of the precious liquid gold didn't quite make it into the glass.

"Ooops."

Oh what the hell. You only live once. House took his glass.

"Hang on, did you say wake? Do you want a wake, Wilson? I didn't think that was a Jewish custom. You do know I won't be able to stay around… after… you're gone. Right? Definitely won't be sitting shiva for you." And then a bit quieter, "Don't think I'd be able to handle it anyway."

Wilson looked at him for a long moment, as if he was trying to determine whether House was pulling his leg or not.

"Don't want anyone sitting shiva for me, House. And a wake? If you want to get piss drunk, be my guest. Actually, we're doing that already. So you don't need to do it on your own. 'm here to keep you company now." And with that he leaned over into House's shoulder and sighed as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

"Don't care what you do with my body… y'know I'm not observant anyway. Do what you think is right, House. You'll know what to do. I trust you…"

Next thing House knew, Wilson had started snoring, his face turned into House's shirt. The man still couldn't hold his drink. At least this time he had fallen asleep before he could start to undress.

Not wanting to wake Wilson, House leaned back into the couch and let the slight dizziness claim him.

* * *

House woke up in the middle of the night because Wilson's elbow was poking into his left side. Carefully he shifted to ease the pressure a bit and turned his head because Wilson's hair was in his face. Wilson's stupid shiny hair, which smelled of melons or something equally obnoxious and fruity.

He briefly considered digging himself out from underneath a drunk, snoring heap of bones and hair. That would have meant waking said heap, though, and so he decided against it. Wilson hadn't been sleeping that well lately and if the Scotch gave him a few more hours of sleep, then so be it. He could handle that elbow sticking into his side for a little bit longer.

Besides, it wasn't all that uncomfortable; at least Wilson was warm. House carefully dragged a woolen blanket over both of them as best he could without disturbing his snoring friend. Taking a deep breath, he settled down and turned his head slightly. His face was now back as it had been before, resting in Wilson's hair. He fell asleep to the sound of Wilson's ragged breath and the smell of melons.

* * *

"House…"

"What?" He limped into the bathroom, his cane forgotten in the bedroom. Wilson sounded agitated. He found him standing in front of the mirror.

"Does that look right to you," Wilson asked, turning and pointing to his cheek. He hadn't shaved in a few days and stubble was beginning to show. No more boyish looks.

"What? Looks fine to me, proper stubble, finally. Took you long enough, you grow facial hair like a teenager."

"No… Not… the beard. It's, don't know… puffy?"

House knew perfectly well what Wilson was asking. He had spotted it two days ago and was surprised it had taken Wilson so long to pick up on it. Superior vena cava syndrome - it had been on House's 'on the lookout' list for a while. Given the headaches, shortness of breath and the cough Wilson had had for weeks now, he had expected facial edema to show up a while ago.

And Wilson was clearly upset about it. He was wheezing a bit and holding on to the sink. So he was lightheaded, too.

House went over and put his arm around Wilson's shoulders. He gently guided him out of the bathroom back to his recliner, trying not to lean on him too much. Never should have left his cane, no matter in how much of a hurry he was.

"You know what this is, you've diagnosed this hundreds of times. On top of it, you've spent the night sleeping on the couch, bunched up against my shoulder. It'll go down once you've been up a few hours. Go, sit down and I'll make us coffee."

And with that he disappeared into the kitchen, casting one more look back before he turned around the corner. Wilson sat at the edge of his recliner, fingers prodding his cheeks. The look on his face turned House's insides to water.

* * *

"What are you going to do afterwards, House?"

There it was. The elephant had been in the room for weeks and now Wilson finally bothered to point it out. Now, when all House wanted was sleep.

"Dunno. Why do you need to know?"

Wilson had seen the contents of the backpack and had done the math. He knew that even if he continued to use a small dose of morphine every night, he wouldn't last long enough to use more than half of it.

"You know why. Because I'm worried. Because I don't want you to… to do something stupid."

House laughed. "You know me, I'm the master of rational and sensible."

House just knew Wilson was glaring at him in the darkness.

For a short moment he considered telling Wilson the truth about how he feared going back to prison more than anything else. How he was afraid of being locked up again, of the fighting, the bullying, the countless rules, how he remembered the boredom, the endless days of staring at a wall because there was nothing, just nothing to engage his brain.

But telling him would accomplish nothing.

"You know what, Wilson? You really get no say in what I do afterwards. I could tell you anything you want to hear right now because you won't be there to find out." There was a weight on his chest and he considered getting up and leaving the room. He felt like leaving this house and going for a long drive. But he wouldn't. "You want the truth? I can't tell you. I don't know."

Wilson clearly would not be happy with that answer. But he had made the mistake of asking  _after_  getting House to give him a small shot of morphine and that was working in House's favor. There was no reply and when House checked Wilson was fast asleep. He sighed, settled back into bed and reached out a hand to rest it on Wilson's chest, as he had done every night since Wilson moved into the recliner.

* * *

It was getting late and Wilson was still sitting at the kitchen table, writing. He had used up nearly all the stationery House had bought for him a few days earlier.

"I'm off to bed. Do you need a hand, Wilson?"

It was better to ask, since he had been a bit wobbly on his feet lately. Not that House was much better. It was a bit like the lame leading the lame here.

"No, I'm good, House, thanks." He didn't even look up from the papers.

"What on earth have you been writing all day anyway?" House bent over Wilson's shoulder.

"Letters."

Indeed. There were six already finished and ready to go and Wilson was still working on another one.

House shifted until he half sat on the table next to Wilson's left hand, knowing full well that would disrupt Wilson's writing, him being left-handed. Once Wilson's elbow had connected with House's thigh and could go no further, he had to look up at House's grinning face.

"To whom? And, more importantly, is one of them for me?"

"These are for people I had no chance to talk to before we left. My brothers. My parents. But since you seem to be unwilling to talk, then yes, maybe I should write you a letter, too."

It wasn't that he was unwilling to talk. Not really. He just didn't know where to start. Because he was afraid that once he started, he wouldn't know how to stop.


	4. Empty Spaces

There are the hard, cold facts – the chair covered in pillows, the basin filled with cool water and a flannel next to it, the vials of Pentobarbital on the dresser, a glass of warm water, a jar of honey and a bag full of morphine in the closet.

There are the hard cold facts and then there's everything else. The moment your best friend says, "It's enough, House" and your insides turn to ice. The way the vials felt when you dug them out of your backpack, cool and innocent. And they are innocent, there is no good or bad where drugs are concerned. You know that better than most. They are as harmless or guilty as any other drug – it depends on the dosage. And in this case, 15 grams should do it. Not much if you think about it.

The sudden realization hits that these are going to be the last hours you will be spending together, and you will be spending them thinking about what you are going to do before the end of the night.

You're wondering if your best friend is as scared as you are but you're too afraid to ask because you know if he says yes you'll chicken out and blame it on him.

When you look at your friend standing there in front of the mirror brushing his hair you suddenly realize you were wrong all those years ago. He may not be able to walk more than five steps without pausing for breath but he still has that same old smile on his face he had nearly 20 years ago. He is showing you what dignity is.

Then he finally stands before you in his gray bathrobe that he has been wearing for weeks, and you have a vision of taking off the robe once he's gone and it will stand up on its own, a perfect Wilson mold with a big fucking Wilson-shaped hole inside. You could fill that hole and make yourself a new Wilson – but it would be a Golem.

While he was in the bathroom you have plumped up the pillows for him and then he looks at the bed and decides he wants to sleep in it once more, not in the old recliner chair he has been occupying for the last month and a half. So you take all the pillows he has been hoarding and arrange them into a neat little Wilson-nest in the bed. A nest that will hold his shape even after he is gone.

"Can you turn on the radio in the kitchen? I want to hear something nice," he asks haltingly.

You jump at the chance for something else to do. "No Broadway tunes or the deal is off!" Surprisingly that raises a small chuckle in Wilson, and a cough immediately after.

In the kitchen you take your time finding a station with classical music you think both of you will like.

When you return you start helping him take off the robe but he refuses to part with it and pushes your hands away without a word – this soft and comfy thing from the store down the road is what he wants to wear. You help him into the bed, pull the covers up and fuss with the pillows until he looks comfortable. You straighten and realize the way you're standing there, towering over him, is not the last view you want to have of him, so you sit down right there in his recliner.

"House…" his voice is hoarse, has been for weeks now. "There's space next to me. Push the other bed a bit closer and you'll fit. I… don't want to lie here all on my own… is this okay?"

Is it okay? Of course it is okay. It's more than okay. You just can't say it because you're afraid you're going to burst into tears if you as much as open your mouth. So you simply nod and climb into bed next to him.

You've heard him wheeze at night for weeks now, watched his chest struggling to rise and fall. Now that you're lying next to him, you can actually feel the constriction, feel the struggle of each single breath.

You take your right and gently rest it on his ribcage, careful not to add more pressure. Rise… and fall…

"I'm sorry," you finally whisper. "So, so sorry."

There is no need for an explanation, he doesn't need details. Sorry for his pain, for fighting over the years, for not listening, for not doing more, for having to let him go…

Listening to the music he suddenly says, "I'd rather you were playing this right now…"

"Huh, anything else? Can't play and cuddle with you at the same time. Besides, we don't have a piano, in case you've forgotten."

"Do you miss it? The piano?"

"Yeah, sometimes."

He picks this moment to get inquisitive. "What is it about the piano? I've… never figured this out. What do you think about when you're playing, House?"

How to explain music to someone who doesn't play? You shrug your shoulders. "Nothing. I don't think. It's not about thinking. It's about feeling."

Wilson is silent for a long time.

"I'm sorry…"

"Huh?"

"For making you leave everything, for messing up your life. For making you do… this." Now he's choking up. You check whether he is crying but he isn't. Not yet.

"Wilson, I've managed to mess up my life all by myself. And this… this… you would have done the same for me one day."

Another long silence.

"I'm not sure I would've been able to. I don't think I would've had the guts. I've been a coward most of my life, House. Afraid of what people think… what they would say, afraid of not conforming. I've wasted much of my life living up to other people's expectations. If I have one regret, it's this. If I could go back and talk to a young me, I'd tell him to live his life the way  _he_  wanted to. And fuck the rest."

Afraid that he is going to burst into tears, you rest a hand on his shoulder.

"You can't go back. But we can still do something about now. So, what do you want now? Rainbows?" You're trying to lift the mood; a weak attempt but he will recognize the intent.

"Yes, House! Yes. I do want all those soft, soothing pictures; I want flowers and rainbows and unicorns, soft pillows and kind people telling me it'll all be okay. But then, I'd know that it's all a lie, right? You're not lying to me. Why do you think I'm here with you?"

"Because you don't have anyone else willing to do this shit. That's why."

"But I have that one person. Most people don't. I know, I've seen it so many times. I have this one person in my life who will do this for me and basically throws his own life away to be able to do it. It's the biggest gift, House. Enabling me to do this on my own terms – well, except for the show tunes – and not be alone… it's… an amazing gift. And I have nothing to give in return."

There is regret in his voice, hoarse as it is.

"And you think you haven't given me enough? All the mothering and meddling you've done over the years wasn't enough? I've made my misery your business, Wilson."

"No, I have made it my business, you never asked for it. We've made each other our business. Your life is my business and mine is clearly yours now."

There is nothing to say to that. It's true. His life is your business.

"By the way… if you want to go now…" he hesitates. "If you don't want to be here when I go, if you change your mind… I understand. It's okay."

"No way am I leaving you alone. All this to pull out at the end? Not a chance. You're stuck with me."

And Wilson turns his head into your shoulder. "Thanks. Because… you know, I would've secretly called you a chicken if you had."

You can't help it; you have to laugh at that. Your laugh sets him off and you end up trading stories back and forth in the dark. There are chickens running through hospital hallways, bottles flying through mirrors and windows, takeaways consumed and crappy movies dissected. Someone gets stuck in a window and someone else locked in his own bathroom. Pancakes get made and an organ is played. Someone proposes and gets drugged multiple times. Endless bottles of beer are drunk and mountains of pizza eaten. Nearly twenty years of friendship squeezed into one night.

When finally, halfway into the night, he pokes you in the side, you know it's time. His respirations are shallow and your hand on his chest can feel the struggle of every single breath.

You drag yourself out of bed and begin pouring the Pentobarbital into the glass of water, one vial after the other, until all of them are empty. You're careful, trying to avoid spillages because if you waste any of this, there is no more. What you have plenty of is morphine, more than enough for whatever happens. Without turning around, you know that he is watching your every move.

It's going to taste horrible and you worry that he will vomit it all back up in a reflex. You should have gotten an anti-emetic. But the honey will have to do the trick; at least he won't have any trouble swallowing that. A spoonful right after the drink…

When you're done and turn towards the bed with that glass in your hand, you can't help it. "Do you really, really want this, Wilson? I  _have_  to ask. Because if there's even the slightest bit of doubt… you have to tell me."

He shakes his head slowly. "No. No doubt whatsoever. I don't just want this. I need this. It's gone far enough."

You need to give him the glass. Don't forget to wipe it. This is his to take and yours to give. But your traces stop here. Anything else can be explained if you have to. If you decide to. And when you pass the glass to him, you touch his hand and realize his is the one that's dry and yours is sweaty. His isn't the hand that's shaking, it's yours.

He empties the whole glass in one go and puts it on the nightstand, trying hard not to gag. The honey soothes a raw throat and helps with the alkaline taste.

Back in bed you turn over to look at him and are surprised to find him watching you, eyes wide. And then you see everything in that look – everything you wanted him to put into that damn letter he probably never wrote. You can't look away because it's all there.

He rests his head on your shoulder and you wish you couldn't feel his carotid pulse through your thin shirt. You search for his hand under the cover and when you find it, he still manages to grasp yours and squeeze it, half asleep as he is. Your other hand goes back to his chest where, in this low light, the faded colors of your bracelet look like part of the gray plaid pattern of his robe.

You don't have to look at him, you can close your eyes because you can feel his respirations slowing down, your hand rising and sinking with his chest.

You didn't expect this. But yes, it feels right.

And you reach over and turn out the lights.


End file.
